


Sherlock Vampires: Housing

by wheel_pen



Series: Sherlock Vampires AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Vampires, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock move into the flat at 221B Baker Street, currently in the care of Mrs. Hudson. She somehow already knows Sherlock, despite him being a vampire over 200 years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Vampires: Housing

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Baker Street wasn’t posh, like the neighborhoods of people with titles; but it was a good deal nicer than where John lived now. The door he knocked on was right next to a sandwich shop, which would be handy for quick meals (for _him_ , anyway); whatever flat was above it would cost a pretty penny, though. Sherlock kept saying they could afford things. Macadam and Sons had given him cash when he presented Sherlock’s note, no questions asked—of him, anyway, he’d seen a flurry of clerks and managers fluttering around first. And going to the bookstore had been fun—he hoped the encyclopedia set would keep Sherlock busy for at least a few days. He tended to pace and mutter when he got bored, often while John was allegedly sleeping.

So now John was standing in front of a door in Baker Street, waiting to look at a flat Sherlock somehow knew about and wanted. Per usual, he’d been vague about the details, and John feared this could easily end in embarrassment for him.

After a moment the door was opened by a woman, maybe sixty, with a maternal sort of face and flour on her blue-checked apron. “Yes, dear?” she asked him curiously.

“Hello. Are you Mrs. Hudson?” John asked politely.

“Yes,” she replied, still clearly mystified.

He handed her the envelope Sherlock had given him. “This is for you.” He’d opened it on the way over, of course, having quickly learned that Sherlock’s grasp of social nuances was slippery at best, and could not entirely be blamed on his two-century absence from the world. But the note inside was written in an alphabet he didn’t recognize—not Greek or Cyrillic, and nothing he guessed as being from the Far East.

The woman opened the envelope and was apparently able to read it, though. Her eyes lit up with excitement, then switched to John with interest; he shifted awkwardly, feeling he’d been written about. Then she tucked the note in her pocket. “The flat’s upstairs, if you want to have a look at it, dear,” she told him cheerfully. “Here’s the key. Come down and have some tea when you’re done.”

“Um, thanks,” John agreed, not having expected such a warm welcome.

“It’ll be rather dusty, of course,” Mrs. Hudson called as she went on down the hall. “But I’ll have that cleared up before you move in.”

“Right.” The building was clearly rather old and the stairs somewhat steep, creaking loudly as John hobbled up them. He’d really been hoping for a building with a lift—his leg was not responding to Sherlock’s blood, though everything else felt unbelievably better. Curiously, he _had_ managed to run a number of blocks, race up and down stairs, and even scale a wall the other night, when he’d been off work and Sherlock had insisted that they have an adventure; but he attributed that to adrenaline.

There were multiple doors on the second floor, the first two being storage closets; it was of course the farthest one that was locked and responded to the key Mrs. Hudson had given him. He supposed she must be from another country originally, somewhere that used the language Sherlock had written in, though John hadn’t detected an accent during their brief conversation. Probably Sherlock had read about the flat in one of the many newspapers he had John purchase—some of them were specific to different ethnic communities in London. She seemed like a nice old bird, though, and John briefly wondered if he ought to warn her about what she was getting into, or maybe try to change Sherlock’s mind. Neither option seemed likely to end well.

The flat was, as promised, terribly dusty, with sheets draped over furniture and unopened packing crates littering the floor. The living room was a pleasant size, though the kitchen was a bit small—well, wouldn’t really be needing it much, would they? John was not exactly a gourmand, and Sherlock—preferred eating out.

A slight problem, though, was the single bedroom. John could imagine Sherlock not seeing that as an issue, though. John would go home, storm into his tiny flat, and try to tell Sherlock off for suggesting they were going to share a bedroom, or worse, a bed. And Sherlock would blink at him with those unnaturally bright blue eyes, and say in a slow tone—so his slow human could catch it—that the bedroom was just for John, because vampires didn’t sleep much, or at least not enough to require a whole bedroom. And it was quite a nice bedroom, spacious with a large closet, and—curiously heavy curtains, John noted, when he tried to push one aside to check the view.

Well, he wouldn’t mention it, then. The rest of the place looked fine—bigger than what John was used to, but not so ridiculously grand that he felt guilty staying there. Even without the fire lit it was cozier on this cold day than he’d expected. John pronounced it fine and locked the door carefully behind him, then set about limping back down the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen at the back of the ground floor, spooning biscuit dough onto a tray. “Did it look alright, dear?” she asked solicitously, pouring him a cup of tea. He sat gratefully. “I haven’t been up there in an age. It’ll need a good airing-out, that’s for certain.”

“Well, I’ll have to check with my, er, flatmate first,” John cautioned. Since he was paying. “But it’s very nice. Very spacious.”

“Have a biscuit, dear,” she pressed. “I suppose Sherlock will want to renovate it, he always does,” she added with a sigh, much to John’s surprise. “I like the classic style best, you know, but he gets bored.”

“You, ah, _know_ Sherlock?” John asked, trying not to choke on his tea.

“Well of _course_ , dear,” Mrs. Hudson assured him pleasantly. “He couldn’t live just anywhere, you know!”

Considering Sherlock had been asleep in that tomb for nearly two centuries, Mrs. Hudson had aged rather gracefully. If she’d aged at all. “Are—are you also a—“ He couldn’t bring himself to actually say the word to someone else.

“A vampire?” Mrs. Hudson finished, as casually as one might say ‘a Scotsman’ or ‘an artist.’ “Oh, no, dear, think how impractical that would be for getting to the market early enough!”

“Er, right,” John was forced to agree. So there were vampires in the world, and there were also… cheerfully ageless housekeepers who made delicious biscuits. That didn’t seem so bad, as far as supernatural creatures went. He felt it might be rude to inquire further about her… species, though. “Um, so, he’s lived here before, then?” he asked instead.

“Oh, several times,” Mrs. Hudson confirmed proudly. “Well, it’s difficult to find reliable places, isn’t it? When you live so long and keep odd hours. Always wondering what the landlord or the neighbors might think.”

John knew the feeling. His neighbors were definitely starting to notice Sherlock’s continued presence in his small flat, and his tendency to be out past curfew.

“But no need to fret about that here, dear,” Mrs. Hudson went on, reassuringly. “Now, here’s my note to Sherlock,” she said, handing John another envelope. “I don’t mean to hurry you out, dear, but I’ve got an awful lot to do. I’m sure Sherlock will want to move in quite soon.”

“Yes, thank you,” John agreed, hurriedly finishing his tea. He tucked the note in his pocket and left, envisioning the chaos that packing with Sherlock would bring.

**

The amount of stuff crammed into the Baker Street flat was beginning to worry John. Apparently, a lot of the furniture and packing crates were Sherlock’s, left in storage with Mrs. Hudson after the last time he’d lived there. This was, as far as John could tell, a very long time ago, even longer than the time Sherlock had been in the tomb, though nobody seemed to think it was important John know the details.

The movers had brought up John’s things, which granted weren’t much, and Sherlock’s _new_ things, which he’d been acquiring at a rapid pace—not just books but records, sheet music for the violin (but not an _actual_ violin, much to John’s relief), clothes, gadgets of all kinds, even women’s jewelry. John was forced to conclude that whenever Sherlock was able to persuade a shop to stay open past curfew, he compensated by going on a spending spree and buying whatever novel goods came to hand. John’s old flat had been filling rapidly, and the new one was quickly losing its spaciousness. He wasn’t even really sure where to begin putting things away, looking around at all the boxes a bit helplessly.

Night was falling and he expected Sherlock to turn up any moment. He vaguely heard the knock at the door downstairs but thought little of it, busy putting some dishes away in the kitchen—that seemed like a safe place to start. Then he heard Sherlock enthusiastically greeting Mrs. Hudson and shook his head with a slight smile, waiting for him to appear in the kitchen and tell him he was stacking the bowls in an inefficient manner.

Instead it was Mrs. Hudson who walked through the open door. “Oh, there you are, dear,” she said to John. “Sherlock needs to talk to you downstairs.”

“He can’t come up here?” John asked in confusion.

“No, dear, that’s the point.” John blinked at her a moment, then suddenly remembered the rule about being invited in.

“You can’t ask him in?” he queried, though the answer was obvious and he limped towards the door anyway. Hopping up and down the stairs with the movers several times—because he couldn’t just stand around and _watch_ —had not been good for his leg.

“Doesn’t work that way, dear,” Mrs. Hudson assured him.

John stopped at the top of the stairs, leaning down precariously trying to see the door to the street. “Sherlock?” he called.

“Yes, John?”

“Can I just invite you in from up here?”

“Well you really shouldn’t!” Sherlock admonished. “What if I’m just _pretending_ to be me?”

“Why would anyone do that?” John sighed, slowly descending the stairs.

“John, I feel like sometimes you don’t listen to me when I try to explain things to you,” Sherlock lamented. He was slowly coming into John’s view, wearing a natty three-piece suit, apparently new. “There are important security considerations here.”

“I thought you’d lived here before,” John pointed out, making it to the foyer finally.

“It expires easily,” Sherlock insisted, tapping his foot impatiently on the sidewalk.

John smirked a little, enjoying the moment. “You really can’t come in?”

“No, I really can’t.” Sherlock was not nearly so amused. “It’s moderate protection only, John, because you have to come out sometime, and someone could do bad things to _other_ people, who aren’t protected at all, to force you out.”

John knew Sherlock was not threatening, only trying to impress upon him dangers of which he’d previously been (rather blissfully) unaware. There were other vampires out there, Sherlock said, who weren’t as scrupulous and benevolent as he was (his actual words).

“Well, come in, then,” John invited.

“Thank you.” Sherlock crossed the threshold promptly and gazed around at the foyer. “Is this the modern style, Mrs. Hudson? I can’t believe you changed anything.”

“Oh, not for decades, dear,” Mrs. Hudson corrected cheerfully. “I suppose that would seem new to you, though. Where’ve you been all this time?”

“Asleep,” Sherlock replied, a slight darkness in his tone, and Mrs. Hudson nodded as though she understood the significance of that. Then Sherlock started to bound up the stairs. “You’d better have electricity and indoor plumbing at least, Mrs. Hudson. They’re miracles of the modern age! How’s your hot water supply?” He had quickly learned that John’s assessment of the water situation at his previous flat had been correct—and that ten minutes of hot water was far too few for him. Of course, John tended not to get _any_ then, unless he could wait twelve hours or so. “John, why are you—oh, the steps.”

John was on number three, while Sherlock had raced up and down the others several times in his eagerness. “Yes, there are steps,” he noted flatly.

Mrs. Hudson watched him wince with concern. “Aren’t you feeding him, dear?” she asked Sherlock.

“It’s all in his head,” Sherlock explained to her, still fascinated by this concept. “He has a psychiatrist. And, he has nightmares. From being a soldier. Don’t worry if you hear noises.”

“I never do,” Mrs. Hudson promised, while John squirmed self-consciously.

“I’m glad you find that entertaining,” he couldn’t help remarking crisply to Sherlock. He’d nearly had a heart attack the first time he’d awakened from a bad dream to find Sherlock perched on the foot of his bed, watching him like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“Entertaining? John, you wound me.” In a blur John felt himself grabbed and transported into their living room.

“Watch for the—“ Through some impossible acrobatics Sherlock managed not to trip over some boxes. That always ruffled him, though.

“What’s all this?” he complained peevishly. “Thought you’d have it all put away by now.”

John rolled his eyes. “Well most of it’s _yours_ and I didn’t know what to do with it.”

Sherlock seemed mildly surprised. “Oh. Really? Mrs. Hudson, you shouldn’t keep so much junk about, you know I’m not sentimental.”

The housekeeper just shook her head as she entered the flat. “After you got so upset when I threw out that nasty beetle collection? Never again,” she vowed.

Clearly this was a sore point. “Those were irreplaceable specimens from the Great Southern Continent! That was _science_ , Mrs. Hudson!”

She was unmoved. “Now will you be wanting the second bedroom upstairs? I gave it a cleaning, but—“

John’s eyes widened in surprise. “Hang on. There’s a second bedroom?” Both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson turned to regard him and he shook his head quickly. “I mean, of _course_ we’ll be wanting the second bedroom. Why wouldn’t we?”

The slip was obvious, though, and he could see Sherlock’s amusement. “Mrs. Hudson, you know how I like to give my humans their own space,” he reminded her. John was not sure he would ever get used to being referred to in that way.

“Well, that’s what I thought, dear,” she assured him. “But I didn’t want to assume. You know, there’s all types in this neighborhood now,” she added tolerantly.

John blanched slightly. “All types? What do you mean by that?” Sherlock didn’t seem to be paying attention, too busy digging into some crates and making an even bigger mess.

“Well, Mrs. Miller’s got a pair down the block who are very discreet,” the housekeeper went on, somehow gossipy without being catty. “Always slipping out at odd times. I’m not sure if they’re werewolves or just Nazi spies.”

“Werewolves?” John repeated faintly. “Are they real, too?”

“There’s no werewolves on this street,” Sherlock rejected without concern, tossing clothes and books over his shoulder. “I’d smell them a mile away.”

“Well, Nazi spies taste better,” Mrs. Hudson mused with satisfaction, and a very definite sense of speaking from experience. John decided to sit down before he fell over.

“He’ll need some food, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock ordered clinically, observing John with displeasure. “You’ve been wearing yourself out.”

“Moving is stressful,” John claimed.

“Well, don’t move so much. Mrs. Hudson!”

“I’m coming, dear,” she assured them, and somehow appeared in the living room with a tea tray.

“How did—“ John began in confusion, wondering if he’d actually passed out for a few minutes.

Sherlock sat down on the couch right next to him. “Eat this,” he ordered, handing him an apple quarter. “We’ll need all the rooms you have available, Mrs. Hudson,” he went on to the housekeeper. “Have you heard from Irene lately? Within the last week or so?”

“G-d, has it only been that long?” John sighed.

“Oh no, haven’t heard from her,” Mrs. Hudson revealed, which seemed to concern Sherlock. “Not for, oh, must be over a hundred and fifty years now.” She handed John a cup of tea.

“Yes, yes, we were asleep together, but we were separated when we woke,” Sherlock explained impatiently. John did not fail to notice how he rested his arm on the back of the couch, just behind John’s shoulders, or brushed John with his foot while crossing his legs. Though Sherlock himself seemed barely conscious of it. “The Germans dropped a bomb on the tomb.”

“How rude,” tutted Mrs. Hudson, carrying a box into the bedroom.

“Rather. He’s on the special diet, by the way,” Sherlock called after her. “Lots of fruits and vegetables for him. They seem much easier to obtain now.”

“I am right here, you know,” John mentioned tightly, trying not to be impolite.

“I know,” Sherlock replied to him, as if that were a silly thing to say.

“Yes, much easier,” Mrs. Hudson agreed, reappearing to retrieve another box. “Such a shame I won’t be able to make my eel pudding, though.”

“Eel pudding?” John repeated, not sure it was really a shame at all.

“I don’t think Irene’s dead, but I don’t know what happened to her,” Sherlock admitted with frustration. “I’ve been scouring all our usual haunts. Of course, the city’s changed so much—eat this, John—“

“Alright, thanks, I can feed myself.”

“Then do so, don’t make me remind you so often. Nothing odd at all, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked hopefully. “No one lurking about outside at night?”

“Oh, no, dear,” she denied pleasantly, opening cabinets in the kitchen. “I’d notice, wouldn’t I?” Sherlock sighed briefly, a very human gesture. He hadn’t spoken much about this Irene to John, but when he did his concern seemed genuine, if mild. “No, the only one I’ve heard from is your brother,” Mrs. Hudson went on. “Every couple of decades, usually—“

“My brother?” Sherlock remarked with distaste.

“Your brother?” John said in surprise.

“Have you noticed how often you repeat things?” Sherlock told him testily. “It’s irritating. Stop. People have brothers.”

And clearly people didn’t like to be reminded of that fact. “But vampires?” John pressed anyway.

“Well I wasn’t always a vampire. Mrs. Hudson, the noise!” She’d been rattling dishes in the kitchen.

“Sorry, dear!”

“But then your _brother_ was turned into a vampire, too?” John guessed. It seemed rather convenient, though not coincidental.

“Yes, well, these things happen,” Sherlock claimed briskly.

John noticed he was holding a wedge of cheese. “Did you want me to eat that?” he asked innocently.

“Oh, only if _you_ want to, John,” Sherlock replied, deeply sarcastic. John knew he shouldn’t find this funny but he did, and took the cheese.

“What’s your brother’s name?” he inquired curiously, though he could see this was a tender issue.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock answered abruptly. The word seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

“He didn’t… go to sleep?” John didn’t fully understand the significance of this act yet, though apparently it kept you out of circulation for a while.

“Mycroft is far too self-important to take himself out of the world for long,” Sherlock snorted, and John coughed a little on his cheese, trying to imagine someone _Sherlock_ would find self-important. The vampire frowned at him until he calmed down. “You must be more careful, John,” he chided. “Chew your food more thoroughly. Would you like Mrs. Hudson to mince or mash it for you?”

“I could do some nice boiled puddings,” the housekeeper offered.

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” John assured them.

“Here’s the back stairs, dear,” Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen, opening a door in the corner that John had assumed was some sort of pantry. “I’ll just take your things up.”

John started to set his food aside. “Oh, I’ll get them—“

Sherlock’s hand clamped down on his shoulder and pulled him back into place, his arm now resting heavily on John to weigh him down. “You need to rest, and eat,” he said seriously.

“And let a little old lady carry my luggage upstairs?” John hissed at him, trying to keep his voice down. “I don’t think—“

“Relax,” Sherlock advised, holding him effortlessly in place. John didn’t want to pout, but he did hate it when Sherlock used his greater strength against him—it made him feel like such a child. “Mrs. Hudson is perfectly capable of caring for the house on her own. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

With a start John glanced around and saw that the mess was almost entirely gone—boxes had been unpacked, books arranged on shelves, dishes put away, knickknacks displayed on the mantel. There still seemed to be a lot of _stuff_ and the place was definitely not going to win any decorating awards, but the previously hopeless clutter was now managed.

“How did—“ John checked his wristwatch—it read only a few minutes since sunset. He held it up to his ear to make sure it was still ticking. Sherlock gazed at him with intense curiosity. “I thought maybe I’d passed out or something,” he tried to explain.

Immediately he regretted the choice of words. “Do you feel faint?” Sherlock asked worriedly, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Light-headed? I can give you some more blood, maybe refrigeration has rendered it ineffective—“

“No, I’m _fine_ ,” John insisted, pushing his wrist away. But gently, because he knew Sherlock was truly concerned—storing blood in glass milk bottles in the ice box was far more convenient for John feeding himself, but Sherlock didn’t yet fully trust the technology when it came to something this important. “It’s just that—how did she get everything put away in just a few minutes, with us sitting here?” He glanced around to make sure she wasn’t in sight. “What is she?”

“Oh, she’s a troll,” Sherlock informed him airily, and John felt his eyes boggle. He remembered Sherlock’s previous admonishment and resisted repeating the word, however. “Trolls make wonderful domestics. Hard-working, clean, quite good cooks I’m told, though not the best nannies—protective of their charges, but sometimes they eat their playmates.”

“Er, yes, that would be awkward,” John agreed. “Sorry, I would’ve pictured something else for a troll, is all.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen her fighting for the prime cuts in the market,” Sherlock assured him blithely. “Shall I have her make you some supper?”

John sighed and leaned his head back, forgetting it would land on Sherlock’s arm. When it did he tried to straighten up quickly, resulting in a curious series of movements to a staring vampire. “Well, I’ve just eaten,” he finally pointed out. “Quite a bit of fruit and cheese and crackers. I’m sure that’ll do.”

“But I’m rather worried about your leg,” Sherlock went on, as though having supper might have solved that. “Your room is upstairs. Well, I’d give you this one,” he added, nodding at the bedroom on their current floor, “except I don’t want to, I like it best.”

John had to smirk a bit. “Compelling argument,” he said dryly.

“Well, my humans never remained defective before,” Sherlock insisted peevishly, and John rolled his eyes. “When does your psychiatrist say this will heal?”

“It doesn’t really work like that,” John admitted with a sigh. He was due to see the doctor again tomorrow and really, _really_ didn’t know how to answer the inevitable question about how his week had been. The thought depressed him and he leaned back again, now not caring that Sherlock’s arm was there.

Sherlock was unusually silent for a moment. “I suppose if your brain has been damaged, it could take longer to heal,” he allowed slowly. “And sometimes people don’t come out the same afterwards.”

“Well, _that’s_ a cheery thought,” John told him.

“Best I can do,” Sherlock claimed, perking back up. “Shall I take you up to your room? Trolls do sometimes have odd ideas about where to put things away.”

“Lead on,” John agreed, feeling like it was probably the most productive thing he could do right now. Which wasn’t saying much.


End file.
